Detoxification
by i.eat.spleens
Summary: [Why? she asked futilely. She knows we both know she's already aware of the answer but she asks the question anyway.] The hardest question to answer is always Why House likes the pleasure of wallowing in the simple comfort of his hallucinations.


**Detox**ification

* * *

**1. Jump in with me.**

There was a steady, sterile glow of fluorescent lights in this building, I can't bear it. Those damn lights scorched every inch of skin and burn holes through my retinas. Fucking lights, remind me to put a request by Cuddy's sex-retary; all florescent tube lighting is hereby to be replaced by disco balls and black lights. A welcome change. Yeah, disco inferno. Everything was _green_, hospital _green_, so strikingly _green_. The room is spinning, it makes the fore boarding feeling of nausea bubble up the deepest pit of my stomach but I don't mind. Maybe it's me. Maybe I'm spinning, spinning, my mind's running away a thousand miles a minuet and it's hard to keep up sometimes, you know? Yeah. The floor opens up suddenly and swallows me up into the familiar cold tile linoleum.

Groping around blindly with one hand, hitting the play button with another. Fireworks explode from the portable speakers and ricochet from the walls in an acoustic phenomenon. Bursts of lights dance across my line of vision; they flare up brilliantly in all a fleeting glory, only to fade off into a monotonous mute and dissipate. Tides of prismatic technicolor waves ebb and flow with the deafening rhythmic pounding of chords, they fill the small green tiled room up with a sea of sound.

A pulse, this whole room has a pulse. The walls shake and quake and vibrate, the floor cracks and crumbles while barely containing the utter pandemonium of pure raw sound; the lights flash. Somewhere there's color dripping from the walls and I think it's _blood_ for a second but then it's not because it's green and it's blue and then it's most brilliant shade of red again.

I'm ecstatic. It's electric. I'll regret it. (_Later_)

Then I can't see anything anymore.

Someone's here. Interrupted. I strain my eyes to see, but everything has blended and blurred far beyond recognition. Something smells faintly like the afterglow of strawberry shampoo and it makes me sick.

She turns off the speakers, not allowing me the pleasure of wallowing in the simple comfort of my hallucinations.

(The room starts sinking into a void of silence. There is not a sound in sight. I get the feeling that _I'm drowning_.)

She's crying. The high is wearing off and it's making me sick.

(_I'm drowning_)

Tears fall to the cold tile floor; they look like rainbows and smell just as sickly and sweet as she does. Where they fall, little strawberry fields bloom and it's making me crazy. It's making me crazy I can't take this anymore.

"Why?" she asked futilely. She knows we both know she's already aware of the answer but she asks the question anyway.

I try to talk but I can't. I want to console her with believable lies but I can't. It's not that I can't lie to her, everything is alright and **no I'm not addicted **butI just can't string together a sequence of words. The excuses I want to say dance just beyond my reach as my mind attempts to order abstract thoughts into coherent sentences.

I can't see her as my eyes jump in and out of focus against my will. I blink, where she should be standing there's nothing but those green, green, oh so green tile walls and I wonder if she was **even ever really there in the first place.**

* * *

Groping around blindly with one hand, hitting the play button with another. Deja view. Except this time the play button is amiss because my ipod is amiss because she must have taken it with her if she was **even ever really here in the first place.** (It's hard to tell sometimes, you know?) 

The high starts to fade off and I feel the dull throbbing of pain knock me back to my senses (Or what's left of them) Minuets seemed to meld into hours and I check my watch only to find out it's tomorrow (4:00 am). A thin slick of sweat's coated my entire body, I feel like I'm running a fever of a hundred and three.

And then everything's** green** and for a moment_ I doN'TKNOWWHERE I AMAND I FEEL LIKE PANICKing_ only it's the drug that wants to panic not me.

Calm down House, I tell myself; it's just the bathroom.

I grab onto the bench with both hands, knuckled turn bone white as I attempt to lift myself. The absence of my cane proves to be a big pain in the ass, tremors rock my nervous system and I collapse in a heap back onto the floor I fell asleep on not so long ago.

I shake off the last bitter remnants of the high and hoist myself into the shower, scrubbing off the salty sweat under torrents of freezing water. I don't remember anything, and I doubt I want to. I feel uncomfortable being in my own skin again, _that_ damn leg keeps pulling me down, so I reach into my pocket for the oh-so-familiar bottle of pills, only to realize that it's not there because I'm not wearing any pants because I'm in the shower.

_Trippy._


End file.
